


Do you have a map ...?

by troubled_midnight



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: F/M, Flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2016-04-26
Packaged: 2018-06-04 13:55:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6661042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/troubled_midnight/pseuds/troubled_midnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>So I just mainlined the first two seasons of Peaky Blinders. Twice. Back-to-back. Because Tommy Shelby, who appears to have taken up residence in my brain and shows no sign of moving out until I give him some attention. Hence this little thing, which has spoilers for Season 2 Episode 5. There may be more of this to come, especially as inspiration is imminent in the form of Season 3 ...</p>
    </blockquote>





	Do you have a map ...?

**Author's Note:**

> So I just mainlined the first two seasons of Peaky Blinders. Twice. Back-to-back. Because Tommy Shelby, who appears to have taken up residence in my brain and shows no sign of moving out until I give him some attention. Hence this little thing, which has spoilers for Season 2 Episode 5. There may be more of this to come, especially as inspiration is imminent in the form of Season 3 ...

 

_Do you have a map?_

A confounding question from an equally confounding man, this sinner in his Sunday best with the face of a fallen angel and the devil in his smile.

_Of the house – a map?_

He’s amused now, and there’s a wicked glint in his eye like moonlight off a knife in shadow.

_Because I’m not going to be able to find my way in the dark._

And now I see the challenge in his cocksure gaze, and his lips – the only softness in the angles and planes of his striking face – those lips are a carnal vow of bites and bruising pleasure that will fill me up and bleed me dry, too much and never enough. Scabbed knuckles tell a tale of barroom brawls and broken bones, yet I’ve seen him gentle a skittish mare with a steadying palm and a quiet murmur in her ear. Absurd to be jealous of a horse, I know, but I’d pay dearly for that seductive whisper, warm breath against my cheek, the comforting lie that shrouds a painful inevitability.

_See, at midnight, I’m going to leave my wing, and I’m going to come and find you._

Because I can see the heartbreak lurking in his shadow, his and mine – loss recognizes loss, after all, those scars from an invisible blade that never heal.

_And I’m going to turn the handle of your bedroom door, without making a sound._

I have no doubt that he can move like a wraith when it suits him – friends at the War Office told me he was a tunneller in the war, and you don’t survive in the trenches with a heavy tread. You don’t survive without luck, either, and Thomas Shelby’s clearly had his share – much of it self-made, I’m sure. But then this man has made himself in every way, layers upon layers, masks over masks, a subterfuge for every situation.

_And none of the maids will know._

Clearly he doesn’t know maids – he’d have been a damn sight safer in the trenches with maids listening for the enemy. They hear a pin drop. If there’s a man in the house, they listen. They take turns.

_So? Let them listen._

And there it is: the pragmatic bluntness, the grist to the Shelby mill on which his fortunes turn. He asked me once, crude as you like: “Do you want to fuck me, Mrs. Carleton? Because I represent something to you?” I demurred, of course, but he saw right through me, eyes on mine as he knocked back his shot of whisky – Irish, naturally.

A bit of rough is what my lot will whisper, with his flat cap and flatter Northern vowels. A dalliance fit for gossip behind their lily-white hands and a haughty sideways glance at the races. But they’d be wrong, so wrong, to dismiss him as a working-class lout in fancy dress. Thomas Shelby may be many things – arrogant, ruthless, deadly – but he’s nobody’s fool. That cap hides a line of razors in the brim, and they’ll slice you down to size as swiftly as the cut-throat intelligence that waits and watches behind his gruff Midlands charm like this felon in his three-piece suit.

But I know better than most that money can’t buy love, or passion, or desire. This spark exists only in the moment and you jump or die. It’ll burn you either way, of course, but like Mr. Shelby I’d rather go to hell for the sins I’ve committed than live in heaven with regrets.

There’s nothing of importance left to say – nothing encompassed by the lexicon of social politeness, at any rate. I retire when the tension between us has become an almost audible thing, leaving him sipping his whisky in the long shadows of the reception room. I pause in the doorway for a moment, unsurprised to find he looks as if he owns the place, standing by a window, his posture relaxed, sharp eyes focused on a horizon only he can see. My gaze is drawn inexorably to his hands, one cupping cut crystal, the other bringing the final inch of a cigarette to his lips. He inhales the smoke as if his life depends on it then tilts his head back to exhale, exposing the long line of his throat.

“See something you like, Mrs. Carleton?”

Of course he knows I’m there. Probably sleeps with one eye open, too, and keeps something sharp and lethal under his pillow.

His gaze meets mine over the rim of the glass as he downs the last of the whisky. Those eyes are full of sin and promises, and I feel the warmth of a blush colour my cheeks. But I’m determined to meet his fire with my own.

“Well, Mr. Shelby, there’s only one way to find out, isn’t there?”

The raised eyebrow and the amused curl at one corner of his mouth tell me he’s better at this game than me and is about to have the last word.

“Brave and fearless, eh, Mrs. Carleton?”

I don’t trust myself to reply, and language has deserted me, in any case. So I dip a mock-curtsey then turn and walk away with as much composure as I can manage. It’s harder than it should be to maintain a straight and dignified line. Mother would be so disappointed.

 


End file.
